


If You Face The Fear That Keeps You Frozen

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Caught In All, The Stars Are Hiding [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Illustrated (soon), Implied Sexual Content, Interspecies Awkwardness, Love Confessions, M/M, Out of Character (I Guess?), Post-Canon Cardassia, Post-Canon Fix-It, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Tipped off by a certain Cardassian's letter, Julian Bashir finds himself on the former's homeworld, heading what Starfleet Medical is calling a "mission of mercy." Unbeknownst to them, his leave of absence from Deep Space 9 is not merely to ferry much-needed rations and supplies to the ailing, proud survivors of the final assault—but to find an old acquaintance, and to wonder if the combined skill in a healer's and a tailor's hands can be enough to mend the wounds between them.Or: "That's when something wild calls you home, home . . ."





	If You Face The Fear That Keeps You Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> Series / story title and lyrical snippets throughout are from Lindsey Stirling's "Something Wild." 
> 
> Hooray, a thing!
> 
> Compared to the other two works in this series, I actually feel pretty decent about this one. Still—really, I'm not thinking much about the details, so be gentle, eh?
> 
> Further disclosure: I've heard that _The Crimson Shadow_ (by Una McCormack) fleshes out Parmak's character and his relationship with Garak (at least a bit), but I haven't read it (yet), so I'm just working off of Andrew Robinson's _A Stitch In Time_ . . . In short, I basically let Parmak write himself. *shrug*
> 
> Thoughts/reviews/comments'n'critiques are all welcome. I do hope you enjoy, and thank you to all who've born witness to this little experiment. <3

I: _"You've got a big heart._  
_The way you see the world,_  
_It got you this far:_  
_You might have some bruises_  
_And a few scars,_  
_But you know you're gonna be okay._

_And even though you're scared,  
You're stronger than you know . . ."_

* * *

Garak was right about the dust. And the smell: as many dead as have been recovered have been laid to righteous rest but everyone knows there's no cap to the toll. Everyone knows that not all who were lost sleep soundly. Perhaps, in time, one becomes accustomed to it—the stench of death—as to so many scents associated with the fragile, ailing vessels bodies are—

But the dust?

Never.

Julian ducks from the shadow of the transport, eyes raking over the desolate and skeletal edifices, houses, halls—hovels now, if even that—places where so many have gathered, huddled, wide-eyed and afraid. He can't help but think of the Bajoran masses held captive when the station was under Cardassian control— _Terok Nor_ —even now the name sends a hollow echo through his mind, as if of fear.

_Think of why you're here._

A kerchief was tied around his nose and mouth in the expectation of menial relief, not miracles, but Julian finds it far more stifling than the open air and a thick mouthful of saliva-slickened dust; roughly he tugs it down, lets it hang around his neck, is reminded vaguely of some holosuite program he and Miles had run—set in the "wild west," so the expression went—then shakes his head. The memories are almost someone else's, now . . . Hand raised against wind-teared eyes he casts around, searching for his contact.

From one of the structures left mostly intact there strides a figure, half-obscured by dust, by weak-grey sunlight playing there against the few surviving windowpanes. He's narrow-shouldered but self-assured; surprisingly long hair for a Cardassian whips across his face; he, too, raises a hand to shield his eyes, though perhaps not so much from the watered sun-echoes as the all-pervasive and invasive dust.

"Dr. Bashir, I presume?"

A broad smile, genial and gentle: much like Garak's, in a way that makes the doctor shiver, but at once wholly _unlike_ his—there are no sharp edges to it, no hidden secrets. Just a smile and an honest face.

"Ah. Yes." He conjures up a chuckle, hopes he's correct in assuming the male's greeting was a jest: but though the smile never falters, pale grey eyes flicker in confusion and he coughs, struggles to recover. "Forgive me, I . . . You're Dr. Parmak."

The Cardassian extends a hand without hesitation, which earns Julian a laugh in recompense. "Garak's taught me a Human custom or two over these many months, Dr. Bashir. Ah, but you hesitate . . . Am I incorrect?"

—And what a question; they are silent for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable, realizing its implications, given the common denominator between them.

"Of course not," Julian hastily amends, grasping the doctor's hand, surprised at how smooth it is, even after . . . "No, you're fine. I . . ."

His eyes must betray him; Parmak's smile flickers. "Yes. Seeing our world for the first time—what it has become—can be . . ." A soft exhalation, a sigh, a wandering gaze. "It is difficult, even now, for most of us."

"I'm . . . so sorry . . ."

Between a man and male of medicine, the words are far more than idle, shallow comfort. Silence blankets them again, but still, but reverent, if weighed with grief.

And then Parmak gives Julian's hand a gentle squeeze. "Dare I say far better this than the Dominion? Yes. And far better this chance to rebuild Cardassia anew than . . . let it be what it has always been."

"I understand you've imparted some ideas like that onto Garak."

"Ah." No smile now—Parmak's eyes grow soft, and Julian finds himself compelled to look away, suddenly uncomfortable. Gingerly (have they been grasping hands so long?) he extricates his fingers, wipes a sweaty palm against his thigh, wishes that regulation fabric did a better job of wicking moisture . . .

"For our friend Elim, Dr. Bashir, I will not speak."

A tactful pause.

"We thank you and the Federation, of course, for your aid. The water and rations are sorely needed here."

"After . . ." Julian tilts his head, uncertain, dares not speak of Garak's letter. "After Garak contacted me, I realized that no one in Starfleet Medical—or otherwise—realized just what a situation you were facing here. We were still too drunk on victory, still mourning our losses . . ."

A nod, somber. "Yes. And perhaps it seemed a fitting doling out of justice, did it not? 'Look now at Cardassia, the ravager of Bajor, in turn suffering the agony it cast across that world!'—ah, do not look at me so woundedly, Dr. Bashir. I do not speak resentfully—far from it. I mourn our dead. I dream each night of those we found, half-living, starving, dying—all those we could not save. And yet . . . if this is what it took for us to be given this, a chance, a hope . . ."

Julian bows his head a moment, glances up, doesn't know quite what to say. He knows no more than Garak what the future will hold for this world, for these people . . .

"In any case!" The Cardassian doctor claps his hands once, lithe fingers steepled, his face once again earnest, open, hopeful—somehow hopeful. "I presume by your continued presence here you've managed to take a leave of absence from the station."

"Sort of. Er, technically I'm here to oversee any medical assistance the Federation might provide."

"Which you have done, with the dispensation of the rations and water filtration systems."

". . . Yes."

A wry smile, far more like Garak's now, crosses Parmak's face, more than he's willing to say reflected in his eyes. "Then might I also presume you're here for other reasons, too."

Julian purses his lips, swallows in a throat grown wretchedly dry; dust-caked, heart suddenly beating out an irregular tattoo, he doubles over, coughing, finds Parmak's hand steady at his back, feels a canteen pressed gently into a shaking fist. The draught he draws is bitter, reeking of rather primitive methods of purification—but pure it must be—for when he manages to speak again, the doctor's eyes have never left him; the cords of bone and cartilage are bunched there at his forehead.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Yes—fine." Julian inhales slowly, words coaxed carefully against his tongue. "Just—the dust—"

To his surprise, Parmak pulls the canteen by a strap over his shoulder, draws it over the Human's head. "You will need this, friend. You have a bit of a walk ahead of you, I'm sorry to say."

"Dr. Parmak, I couldn't possibly—"

"Take it, please. Thanks to you, to your Federation, there are much more where this has come from—available to all who need them."

A nod—no strength to argue now—no point in arguing. If the tables were turned, Julian knows he'd take nothing but acceptance for an answer. And what sacrilege would rejection be—such an unassuming, selfless gesture—

Parmak turns, Julian following his shadow, pointing up the road, through a line of rubble, past the silhouettes of buildings—a sharp cluster of them—though beyond them lies a haze, a snatch of clouded sky and watered sun, the promise of at least a patch of open space. "Tain's house, or what's left of it, is in that direction, Dr. Bashir. You will recognize it by the . . . structures there. The . . . cairns."

The Human shivers, thinks of what those cairns have become: the work of Garak's restless hands turned into not merely memorials but something else far greater—

A few steps, each in their own way, and then Julian turns, casting a glance towards the retreating figure of the doctor whom he's almost sure has as much a hold on Garak as he ever did. For different reasons, in different ways, but so it must be . . .

"Thank you for everything," he calls, words choked and caught against that damned dust-riddled throat.

Parmak hardly pauses, elegant-long hair awhirl about him like some ethereal halo. "Many thanks more to you, Dr. Bashir. He will be glad to see you."

* * *

II: _"Sometimes the past can_  
_Make the ground beneath you feel like quicksand._  
_You don't have to worry:_  
_Reach for my hand._  
_Yeah, I know you're gonna be okay._  
_You're gonna be okay._

 _And even if you're scared,_  
_You're stronger than you know . . ."_

* * *

A step stirs him from a spell of wonder: he'd planted a plot of orchids here and expected nothing—a futile, wasteful gesture, if ever there was—but to his shock, despite the alkaline dust and ash laced throughout the topsoil now, he's found that life can and does cling to what is given it . . .

Another step, closer: the clattering of stones by clumsy feet. The cairns, after all, in such minute and subtle ways are ever-changing . . .

He shakes his head, turns back to the orchids, picking at a few stray withered leaves. Someday, he hopes, the streets will be lined with such as these—and not just orchids—as if the finest gardens of the most wealthy of estates will have spilled their banks and flooded the walkways—yes, in the new Cardassia, there will be such glory as that—for all—

Third step, then, the scraping of a foot, jarring at him, prickling his consciousness.

 _Kelas has not come in a few days_ , Garak muses, almost in reassurance—for Kelas knows these stones as well as he and would not be so clumsy; _yes, I suppose he—_

Silence, no steps more: whoever's come to call is waiting.

Garak closes his eyes, breathes deeply, finds somehow that his breath is steady, as if he's grown accustomed to the thickness, to the dust, to the stale-sweet-stench of it—

Not for the first time does he consider briefly how he'd once have acted: not a moment's hesitation: feet and limbs sprung taut, he'd have stood and turned and greeted with enthusiasm (of some strain) his visitor—

But now—

Said visitor draws a breath, coughs slightly, as if unaccustomed to the atmosphere being what it is, and now, _now_ the moment of hesitation's passed and Garak swiftly finds his feet, cramped limbs or no, turning, turning with speed and grace which he's nearly forgotten—

* * *

They stare at one another for a moment, cerulean eyes finding a darker gaze which waxes grey and pitch and hazel, depending on the Human's mood—

Endearingly awkward as the day they met, Dr. Bashir smiles at him, wanly, nervously, hands fluttering up to wave hello, reflexively, then dropped just as quickly to his side when he realizes how utterly foolish he looks—because this is not his world, nor his Federation's station, and Cardassians do not greet each other so.

* * *

Garak smiles, dips his head, as is his custom.

"Doctor," he murmurs, "I did not think you'd come. Certainly not without a reply."

The young man works a moment for an answer. "Yes. Well. I'm here on a—what Starfleet Medical is calling a 'mercy mission.' No—don't give me that look; it's not meant as a diminutive term . . . I'm just here to help, to bring supplies, to see if there's anything I can do to—to help."

"Ah. So I see." Garak's eyes take in the canteen slung about the doctor's shoulders—such a precious commodity, water—and then the doctor's frame: lank as ever, shadow-eyed; he has not been sleeping well. His hair seems shorter, which is rather a shame. The sun plays off the sweat beading at his brow, the strange light in his eyes—no—not light—

_The wind is toying with his fragile eyes—that's it . . ._

Would that Dr. Bashir could know how many little lies like this Garak tells daily to himself . . .

"But." The Human's voice catches suddenly. "But—Garak. I. Your letter . . . I . . ."

Garak raises a hand to silence him, beckoning him closer with nothing more than a shifted gaze; when that grey hand is still not lowered, Dr. Bashir, with a start, registers the gesture, presses his palm against the male's—

A nuanced thing—more than a handshake—or a casual peck on the cheek—both are still as customs, Earthside—

And there is no doubt then of the tears in the Human's eyes, not as he brings his other hand up with a gasp to trace the callouses and nicks and scars there carved into what, during those seven years, had grown to be soft-scaled flesh—nimble-fingered and strong-grasping flesh—but soft, the same—as had grown so much of him—

The former tailor's smile widens now, if tenderly, a sudden unexpected rush of gratitude and . . . what else can he call it? . . . joy at the doctor's arrival washing over him. The invitation he may have given, but how little he expected it to be heeded . . . Julian Bashir is a busy man, these days, there on the station still christened Deep Space 9, there with his research and there with the Trill whose name and memory, despite himself, still spike bitter acid against his tongue—

"Garak?"

A sharp shake of the head— _No, this won't do at all; Elim, where are your manners? (On whose grave do you surely walk? What would Mi—what would your mother say?)_

"Ah, forgive me, Doctor. I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that the nights have not been very kind. You yourself look like you've missed a fair amount of sleep."

A shrug—to be expected.

"Well, then, come. I don't have much to offer, Doctor, but I would be remiss to leave us standing here."

The young man gapes a moment, clearly on the verge of gesturing to the rations in his pack, the canteen full of water, before he takes a second look at Garak's face and, rather a protégé of the Cardassian, allows a smile to be but his only answer.

* * *

III:  _“You had your maps drawn;_  
_You had other plans_  
_To hang your hopes on._  
_But every road they led you down felt so wrong._  
_So you found another way . . ._

 _If you’re lost out where the lights are blinding,_  
_Caught in all, the stars are shining,_  
_That’s when something wild calls you home, home._  
_If you face the fear that keeps you frozen,_  
_Chase the sky into the ocean,_  
_That’s when something wild calls you home, home.”_

* * *

The sunset on Cardassia, Julian admits, once must have been spectacular. Now it's a grimy smear of gold and crimson, the sky alight and strung and muddied by some unseen, noxious brush, the ash and smoke still lingering from the worst scenes of destruction, borne by atmospheric currents—the smoke as mars the sky tonight might be of far more than the charred remnants of cities—

"Do not dwell so long on the destruction, Doctor."

Garak pulls the cup from shaking hands, refills it with a concentrated, bitter tea, knowing that Humans cannot abide for long without adequate hydration. Cardassians, meanwhile . . . From the wreckage he and Parmak had pulled survivors, survivors who'd been buried weeks . . .

"You might take your own advice, Garak."

Warm fingers close about his own, stilling the tremors there.

Dark eyes, cerulean, meet in the meager spitting misery of a battery-operated light; half-cast, their faces are shadowed to one another, accentuating the Human's sharp cheekbones and the Cardassian's myriad ridges.

They've spoken little, which alarms them both, though neither will admit it; when Julian mentioned having snuck Delavian chocolates into his sack of personal rations and supplies, Garak had taken the hint: between Starfleet fare and the Cardassian equivalent of MREs, they'd shared something of a feast.

In silence.

Now it's grown dark, the last flecks of sunlight sloughing through the ashen clouds; of no particular surprise, Garak's positioned himself closest to the open door; Julian sits closer to their meager light and studies him, finally fumbles in his rucksack— _Such an archaic thing_ , Garak wonders idly—and pulls out at last a bottle.

"What is it?"

"Lotion, for your hands. Here—let me see."

Silence, as the young doctor carefully works across the Cardassian's hands, smoothing the scales, worrying the scars and gently skirting the half-healed nicks, the raised whispers of bruises. "When you spoke of building the cairns"—not until he's capped the bottle and tucked it back away does Julian speak up—"I knew your hands would be like this."

"The thought bothers you?"

"As do the thoughts of your not having enough to eat. Or drink." Dark eyes flash hazel, a small smile quirking at the Human's lips. "Thankfully you seem well."

Garak's face is bland, his gaze grown sharp, and Julian wonders briefly, with a frantic spike of heat, intensity, if he's overstepped his bounds—if he's irrevocably broken things—so gently does he feel he needs to tread tonight. "Such concern for one, Doctor—for a simple Cardassian such as myself? I'm rather astounded. I'd have pegged you as someone more altruistic."

"I . . ." Julian ducks his head a moment. "Garak, I care what happens to your people, too, but _you_ —"

"You have an emotional investment in me; is that it?"

Silence.

Garak edges closer to the door, stares up into the ash-clad stars, breathes deeply.

Julian vaguely thinks of appealing to whatever it was in Kelas Parmak that drew Garak to him, too, as to Julian himself—there's something there—something between the two of them—as healers, perhaps, which appeals to a male who once was the polar opposite—or else—

"So tell me, Doctor, how have _you_ been keeping? You soothe my hands but give me nothing else, except this unexpected visit."

 _Don't you like it? Isn't that why you ended your letter as you did? To bring me here?_ The questions are childish, and Julian knows Garak wouldn't answer any. He draws a breath, can't look at his—

. . . friend . . . ?

Scarcely does he consider that Garak might well be leading him along. Maybe it's for the best, because he sure as hell doesn't know what he's doing, why he's here: he had no plan, none, but to find the Cardassian again and—

"Doctor?"

Real concern then—Julian shakes his head, blinks into the dying light, finds Garak little more than a silhouette in washed-out shadows now. He raises a sweaty hand to wipe at his forehead, futilely, before shrugging his shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the sticky patch of perspiration gathered in the small of his back.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite fine, Garak. Just . . . tired. No. All's well. My research keeps me busy, as you must have known."

"The station must be quiet now."

"Yes, mostly. It's . . . empty . . . without so many . . ."

A stiff breeze whips up, scatters dust and stones, sings and moans among the cairns, plays Garak's hair about his head, eerily reminiscent of Parmak's.

"I should imagine so," the latter murmurs, shifting yet again until Julian knows those sharp eyes are staring at him. "And what about you and the counselor?"

Granting that forthrightness is as much a turn of Garak's nature as obfuscation, the Human quells a shiver. "Erm. No, we . . . it was . . . During the war, we were drawn to one another—you know, your life could end—that sort of thing. We needed each other, I suppose, but now the war's over and . . . we don't."

"The natural progression of things, yes."

Tentatively: "And . . . you, Garak?"

"What of me, Doctor?" Mildly, so mildly, but would that Julian could know the smile Garak keeps carefully hidden—shadow-cast as he is or no—the quickened pulse, the tentative curiosity rekindled—and the savage, subtle triumph that the Trill is no longer in the good young doctor's bed.

"Oh. I just. Your letter . . . you speak of Dr. Parmak often . . ."

Garak chuckles for a moment, but his voice is low. "He is not _you_ , Doctor. He is . . . In some ways, yes, he _is_ someone that I need, but he is not . . ."

A catch, a snag, a moment slipped: Garak could blame a rush of sugar from the chocolate but can't even pin the lapse on a bottle of _kanar_ . . .

Brusquely, then: "Why _did_ you come here, Doctor? Certainly not to inquire into my own personal affairs—you're not so childish as that."

"No." Julian shakes his head, fights for a steady breath. "No, Garak, I'm not a child. God. But that I acted so much like one, sometimes . . . And that I was so afraid . . .

"I came here, Garak, because your letter . . . I never stopped to think how much I hurt you. How much I didn't mean to, but I did, all for my own fear, my own comfort, my own selfishness, self-righteousness . . . When the war broke out with the Dominion and then suddenly it was _your_ people we were fighting, I thought . . . it seemed too easy . . . so I . . ."

A pause, by which Garak doesn't finish the sentence, picks up a different thread. "Doctor, do you remember what I wrote? About relationships sometimes coming to an end because we are too afraid of what they hold—of what they have to teach us about ourselves? We'd rather live our dreary lives the same, in ignorance?"

"Just that, Garak—just that."

The Human hunches his shoulders, sighs, shivering slightly in that same sour wind which keeps on singing through the stones.

"The thing is," he continues doggedly, "I could just assume that we're both adults and can move on and it was all a misunderstanding, a mistake, and there's nothing to be said. That's what I thought, when I wrote to you, at first . . . I thought that I'd simply extend a formal hand and that was it . . . and then . . ."

"What I told you, Doctor, no single person knows. Friends had bits and pieces. _Had_ —you'll appreciate the emphasis, I grant. But no—I'd not divulge those secrets to you merely to put you in harm's way."

"I'd never think so."

They are still again, and silent, and the night falls, and Julian listens to Garak's breathing, counts the measures, wonders if even the open door isn't enough—if the darkness and the shed and his own presence are constraining . . .

"I am an unfinished man, Garak."

A low chuckle.

A tawny hand, smooth, restive and uncertain, quivering now as it never has, fumbles through the darkness, traces the rough fabric of a sleeve, the soft flesh of an arm beneath, and then the broad, hard muscle of a shoulder used to hefting` stones and the ridges there, erogenous that they are, as his fingers carefully avoid.

"I'm so glad to have made such an _interesting_ friend."

"Really, Doctor . . . how unoriginal."

"But true."

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

"No, I do not think so, Doctor."

* * *

_Friends might do a great many things for one another, but few as much as this, and none that_ I _know—and before you accuse me, Doctor, of simply being a_ Cardassian _. . . I've seen how Humans treat their friends, and glad enough they might be upon reunion—but you, here, with that nervous little smile and these shaking hands and chocolates in your pack—_

_What was it you said once, in my quarters? Hardly can I remember much of it—but something about a juvenile proposition—_

And yet—

* * *

Abruptly Garak stands, a mere shadow now against the greater darkness. Julian, reflexively, finds his feet as well, fingers brushing at the walls of the little shed, the stars and Garak's silhouette his only guide.

"It's a bit cramped in here, Doctor, is it not?"

Guardedly, gently—"A bit."

"Come, then, let's take a walk."

"I don't have—"

"You don't need a light, Doctor. The moons are bright. And, after all, I _did_ grow up here—I haven't forgotten . . ."

"No, you wouldn't have . . ."

Ducking from the shed, he finds that Garak's scarcely moved.

"One thing more, please, Doctor."

The Cardassian tilts his head enough so that a shred of moonslight plays across his cheek, his eyes.

"Would you be so kind as to leave your badge behind?"

Julian's fingers fly up reflexively to toy with his Starfleet pin, stomach twisting at the thought of being out of communication with, well, _anyone_ —and not to mention—

"If it's any consolation, Doctor, I won't be able to understand you, either."

"Why don't you want—"

"We are loquacious males, Doctor. But I sense in you what's kept you fearful is not so much our conversations as . . . all else."

The Cardassian reaches out, puts a hand on Julian's slender shoulder, reminiscent of so many years ago. "I'm under the impression, as it were, that much of what you're so afraid of is not merely for who I am, but what. Humans can be rather . . . rigid . . . in their attractions. Many times I've sensed your interest, hastily snuffed out for fear . . . You are not afraid tonight, Doctor—which is to say, of course, you _are_ , but you choose yet to face your fear."

"—Yes." Dry lips, dust-caked throat: the word is hoarse, is soft.

"Please excuse my apparent selfishness, but believe me that I speak not merely from self-interest when I say that I'd have expected nothing less, Doctor. You are a brave man, and a brilliant one."

Julian shakes his head, lips pursed, dares not speak, knows now why Garak wishes no more words between them. Fittingly, perhaps, he'll give the last words of the night to him; still shivering, he plucks the badge from his uniform, toys with it a moment, holds it in his palm. Instinctively—Starfleet regulations and years of conditioning be damned—he knows that it will be safe. No one will come to toy with the hovel of Garak, son of Tain, once the most feared of the Obsidian Order—

But now what is he? What is this broken world that any of it matters anymore?

Julian fishes through the darkness, ducking back into the shed, stashes the badge within his sack.

The air is cool. He shivers.

And what is Garak now but a tailor-turned-gardener, a digger of graves and mourner of dead, speaker for the dead such as it were with stones?

His hand finds the Cardassian's, and the softest, strangest sounds reach him—he shivers again, not so much for the cold, but _oh_ for the cold—remembering from dreams if nothing else the inflections of natural-spoken Kardasi—the low, whispering spray of hisses, clicks—a song—primeval and primordial and yet as nuanced as the sweetest piece of music—

They walk through the night, the moons aglow, too brightly now for cover, but it doesn't matter. Julian thinks of Garak's letter, of his mentioning the Lover's Moon, that pale, pale light—ah, but this is best—

* * *

The air is cool, and Garak shivers, feels the Human shiver, too.

Beside him, the lanky silhouette speaks gently as they wander—wander so it seems—though Garak knows the places still where the ground is soft, is . . . pure . . . The strange cadence of untranslated song is a delicious tickle, a melody, rapture, pleasure, rhapsody— His blood sings, too, his body quickened. His hand is still at the doctor's shoulder—gently—ah, no, but the good doctor will have nothing to fear from him, nor has he ever— _ever—_ if but to misconstrue Cardassian play and courtship—

* * *

Julian pauses, wraps his arms around himself, braces against a sudden draft, a sharp and biting wind—glances once at Garak, smiling, almost laughing—the words tumble from a loosened, giddy tongue—if Garak even remembers, ah—

_It's cold._

* * *

Neither thought nor hesitation: Garak wraps his arms around the Human—gently, gently—the doctor's sigh and cry of shock, relief, amusement, need muffled there against his shoulder—the warm breath there a hiss across the ridges—and he trembles—feels lithe arms in turn begin to trace his jaw, his cheek, the cartilage and bone—hesitant, the doctor's hand—but curious—but unashamed—

* * *

Breathlessly, a single word, a growled whisper, soft-edged—

Julian blinks, wide-eyed, dream-caught, tethered by his pounding heart and heated blood and Garak's song as, though standing there, they begin to sway, clinging to each other, rhythm and counterrhythm caught, intertwined, as nuanced a dance as any verbal game they've played. Neither of them cares now for who might see, nor is there room, at least for now, for fear.

Again the word—the melody—taut, now—not a question, but a question—

Not a word.

A name.


End file.
